Pirate in the Blood
by REB Jenn
Summary: A set of stories linking Curse of the Black Pearl and Dead Man's Chest, filling in the blanks of what might have happened. Touches of Norrington in each.
1. Chapter 1

**Pirate in the Blood**

.

The aftermath of the ending of CotBP, set immediately afterward.

Disclaimer: This story was written for entertainment only and I am making no profit from it. "Pirates of the Caribbean" and the characters within belong to Disney; I am only borrowing them and no harm is intended with this story. Please do not post elsewhere without permission from the author.

_"No; he's a pirate."_

The problem was, Will Turner was not, at heart, a pirate.

It was easy to believe otherwise, when one was at his side on a ship's deck, shovelling debris into cannon while guns roared and smoked billowed.

It was easy while swinging makeshift weapons in tandem, treading shifting piles of coin and jewel like so much pebble-strewn sand, protecting each other's back from decaying skeletons charging with unstoppable fervor.

It was easy to believe when he was somersaulting across the parade ground, dodging redcoats, his sword flashing heroically in the hot Caribbean sunshine, intent upon the rescue of a good friend and a good man.

It was harder to cling to the belief when Will Turner, adventurer and pirate, slipped back into his steady, law-abiding life of village blacksmith with the relief of a man stripping off an ill-fitting shirt.

"Will, please come in and dine with us!" Elizabeth had begged once he had walked her home from the fort. They stood face to face below the front steps, in the shade of the porte-cochere. Will took her hands in his and shook his head.

"I mustn't," he said gravely. When Elizabeth made an impatient gesture, he forestalled her. "I do not wish to try your father's good will," he explained. "Let him get used to the idea of us-- of the engagement between yourself and the Commodore being broken-- of having an orphaned, half-pirate blacksmith in the family. It is all so unexpected, and, no doubt, trying for him."

Elizabeth gave a most unladylike snort. "I am quite certain he has already taken to his bed with a fit of the vapours," she said. Her eyes took on a wicked gleam. "Father will not notice _what_ we get up to tonight," she murmered, slithering one arm up around Will's neck.

But Will only laughed, and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. "I dare not! Besides, I must get back to the forge. John Brown has undoubtedly been hearing wild tales about my imprisonment and death, and I should not like him to replace me."

"Oh, nonsense!" Elizabeth cried, fumbling to keep hold of him. The door from the rose garden to the morning room stood open in the late-day heat, and once inside they could bolt all the doors...

But he merely touched the brim of his fine manly hat and took his leave, leaving Elizabeth to trail disconsolately indoors after watching him stride down the steep curving drive.

He did not come the following morn, and so Elizabeth put on her second-best morning gown and her jauntiest bonnet to seek him out. Weatherby, only partially recovered from the previous day's upsets, found himself remonstrating in painfully shrill voice with his headstrong daughter. She brushed off his every concern with appearance and propriety, insisting that after her recent adventures, a simple stroll to the blacksmith's shop was of trifling danger.

"It is not danger that concerns me, Daughter, but wagging tongues!" the beleaguered governor cried.

"Really, Father! As if it matters after my days in one Pirate Captain's cabin, and a night spent marooned with another..."

"Enough!" Poor Weatherby looked paler than a moon-washed corpse. "Let us not speak of those days again, lest they become common knowledge." He drew himself up with trembling dignity. "You will not wander the mean streets of Port Royal, no, not even to visit your affianced husband!"

"Fine," Elizabeth capitulated sulkily. Crushing her gloves in her roughened palms, she swung around to the grand staircase. "Susan!" she bellowed with the ease of a seasoned crewman, the volume causing her father to flinch. "Susan, come down at once, you are to accompany me to town!"

And thus accoutered with maid and parasol and demure lace shawl, Elizabeth went to pay a visit on her betrothed.

.

The town was in uproar. Men swarmed over the _Dauntless_, hammering, planing, varnishing, scraping. A brigade of dockhands passed provisions hand over hand into boats, the boats then to be rowed out and unloaded into the holds. Women with baskets upon their hips hawked fresh bread and ripe fruit to anyone with the coin. A clamor of wagons and carts filled the streets, causing Elizabeth and Susan to leap out of their reckless path more than once.

"What on earth...!" Susan gasped, as they narrowly missed being splashed by a wagon wheel careening through a puddle of muck. She angrily shook her own sunshade at the frantic driver.

"'One day's head start'," Elizabeth murmered. James had not been speaking flippantly, then-- he meant to sail, fully provisioned and manned, no later than the afternoon tide. Abruptly she changed direction, turning toward the teeming wharf instead of the narrow street where the forge stood.

The two women were jostled most unpleasantly, and Susan received several pinches and pats on her bottom as they pushed through the crowd. "That's 'er-- the Pirate Lass!" Elizabeth heard, and then a rude whistle. She spun around, but could not tell which grinning, leering man had spoken. Her jaw clenched, and she fingered the heavy ebony handle of her parasol, but just then Susan gasped, "Oh! 'Tis the Commodore, Miss! Do only look!"

James. Or, she supposed, he was back to being Commodore Norrington again, now that that farce of an engagement was voided. He was standing on the dock with his two most trusted lieutenants, absorbed in the papers and books they held for him.

His hat was crooked, Elizabeth observed critically, and he appeared to have shaved most hastily, if at all. Otherwise he was as immaculate and strait-laced as ever.

She marched purposefully up to him. The other lieutenant, Groves, the one she did not know well, saw her approach and touched his commander's arm. Norrington glanced up impatiently, spied Elizabeth, and a brief spasm of hurt passed across his face.

When she reached his side, it was gone, replaced by the stony blankness she so abhorred.

"Miss Swann. I'm afraid I have no time to spare for social niceties. We are in rather a rush this morning to get under way."

"That is what I have come to speak with you about, James." She saw a flash of feeling in his eyes-- was it anger? And beside him, that young fop Gillette flared his nostrils and opened his mouth as if to speak.

Norrington quelled him with a glance. "Gentlemen, a moment, if you will?" Murmering assent, they drew aside, Groves with a curious glance, Gillette with a lowering one. "A moment only, Miss Swann, I beg your indulgence."

So it was to be stiff formality again, was it? Elizabeth felt her own impatience swell. She had no stomach for stifling propriety, not after the taste of such sweet freedom these past weeks. "Commodore, I must ask you-- do these preparations mean you intend to run the _Pearl_ to ground?"

A faint frown gathered between Norrington's brows. "Of course."

"Then your 'One day's head start' was not simply a mere pretense of an effort to capture Jack Sparrow?"

"No, Miss Swann, it was not. Even had I put to sea the moment those black sails were spotted, we would not have caught the _Pearl_. She is faster off the mark and faster on a race out of port. Our only chance of catching her is in the long haul or by ambush. For either, the _Dauntless_ needs to be fully stocked and manned. Which, as you can see, is what I am engaged in at present. I must beg you excuse me, my time is hard-pressed."

Elizabeth caught his blue sleeve. "James-- don't!" she blurted.

He turned back, one eyebrow raised and an odd expression on his face. "Don't what? Go after Sparrow?"

She nodded. "Please don't. Please. I... I wish you would not."

"You should not fear for my safety, Miss Swann. Chasing down brigands is what I do."

With no forbearance for his mistaking her concern, Elizabeth shook her head. "It is not you I fear for, Commodore! Jack Sparrow is a good man. He helped save my life and Will's. Can you not just let him go?"

It was not until all colour and expression drained from James Norrington's face that Elizabeth realized how callous her words were. Her lips parted, but there was no calling them back-- they had pierced the man opposite her and worked their poison.

His eyes were chips of green sea-ice. "I owe no allegiance to Sparrow," he said, low. "And he will not escape me again. Good day, Miss Swann."

She stumbled from the dock, a cold lump in her belly and another in her throat. She had blundered, badly. Norrington had thought she held some fond feeling for him-- after all, he had been a frequent guest in her father's house since their arrival together in Port Royal, had indulged her questions on sailing and navigation and tides through many a dinner party. He had just never realized the depth of her connection to Will Turner, blacksmith's boy, during those eight years of her growing up.

"Serves him right, the bloody fool!" Elizabeth muttered as she marched with an unladylike stride through the bustling streets. "Perhaps that will deflate some of his unbearable stuffiness!"

By the time Elizabeth and the silently trailing Susan had reached Brown's smithy, she had convinced herself her wounding words were deserved, although she did regret losing the possibility of wheedling a pardon for Jack out of her former intended.

.

Brown's Blacksmith was filled with soldiers of the Crown. Some were purchasing the simpler swords and knives from Will's stock; other were having weapons cleaned, sharpened, edged. One man was measuring chain and another counting out grapples, both arguing with a gently swaying Brown over the Royal Navy's account.

Will stood at the center of this hubbub, sweating freely as he pounded out a swatch of metal for a new sword-guard. He noticed Elizabeth instantly, catching her eye and grinning at her.

"Will!" These men possessed more manners than the merchants and dockhands outside-- they parted, allowing her and her maid to pass through the smithy. "I missed you this morning!"

The clamor of voices began to still. "That's 'er," someone muttered, and a chill undercurrent ran through the hot, dim room.

Will looked at her, his rhythmic blows never hesitating. "As you see, emergency orders have kept me here," he said over the clang of metal. "Forgive me if I don't pause and greet you properly-- the _Dauntless_ sails today and her men must be ready."

Elizabeth raised her chin. "And you help them. By forging the weapons they will use to try and capture Jack."

He glanced up briefly then returned his gaze to the metal piece he was moulding with fire and force. "My duty, Elizabeth."

"Your atonement, you mean!" She pushed forward in a rustle of skirts, eyes blazing.

Will paused in mid-swing, his expression tinged with alarm. "Mind the sparks, Elizabeth!"

"Hang the sparks! Will! You cannot arm Norrington's men, not when they mean to kill Jack!"

He thrust the half-formed guard back into the fire and pumped the bellows. "My work has always assisted in the capture of pirates, my love."

"Yes, but... "

"But now I am a pirate, is that it? Dearest, I am a blacksmith. I earn an honest living. My nest egg comes from toil and sweat and scrimping, not from the pockets of others." He pulled the piece from the flames, considered its colour, and laid it back upon the anvil. Will Turner smiled shyly at his bride-to-be. "Don't worry-- we gave Jack a chance. He won't waste it."

"He would have a greater chance if you refused to accomodate the _Dauntless's_ master-at-arms."

"I doubt your father would suffer his daughter to marry an orphan half-pirate _unemployed_ blacksmith."

Elizabeth opened her mouth, a dozen arguments ready to spill from her tongue. Suddenly the forge came into focus-- the silent, staring soldiers; Brown, frowning slightly as he tried to keep up; Will, rounding the guard with expert taps, the tips of his ears burning; Susan, scarlet with mortification...

She closed her mouth with a snap. Hanged if she was going to let these common soldiers and sailors entertain themselves watching her harangue Will! It would be all over the _Dauntless_ by nightfall.

"Please call upon me when you are finished," she snapped. Gathering her skirts once more, she swept from the forge.

Conversation swelled at ther back. "Careful, boy-- I hear hens peckin'!" she heard, and then a burst of rough laughter. It made her pause, one hand on the doorlatch, half-minded to turn and lash out at the rude lout.

"Miss, please!" Susan whispered, and with ill grace, Elizabeth let the remark pass and departed.

They made their way back toward the mansion. Several times Elizabeth saw townspeople start and stare at her. There were surreptious pointings, and several lasses ducked their heads behind fans to whisper. Elizabeth raised her chin proudly and glided past them.

_Jealous,_ she told herself. _Envious of my adventures._ And she thought back on the terror and exhilaration of the past days and smiled to herself.

The glow of happiness faded somewhat as she and Susan passed the docks once more. The family carriage stood at the foot of the pier, and Elizabeth was irritated to see her father up on the dock at the Commodore's side. The two men seemed most comfortable together, and even as she watched, Weatherby placed his hands on Norrington's shoulders and leaned forward earnestly.

"Did you wish to wait in the carriage, Miss, and ride home with your father?" Susan broke into her thoughts.

"No. Come along, we shall walk."  
.

The _Dauntless_ sailed on the evening tide. Weatherby Swann attended the departure, resplendant in his finest wig and most decorated coat. The setting sun glittered redly on the abundance of buckles and braid.

At her father's insistance, Elizabeth was at his side. The wharf was crowded with townspeople, and the mood was much more solemn than the previous day's aborted hanging. Sailors' loved ones waved, blew kisses, and wept into handkerchiefs-- they knew the separation was likely to be a lengthy one.

Jack Sparrow and his _Pearl_ would not be an easy prey.

High upon the deck of the _Dauntless_ stood her Captain, hands clasped behind his back, feet slightly apart, balancing easily against the lift and sway. Despite herself, Elizabeth felt a sudden thrill of admiration-- James looked so at home on a ship under sail. He was in his element.

She had seen the difference in him on the triumphant return to Port Royal-- he had been at ease, almost lighthearted. She had caught him laughing-- actually laughing!-- with Gillette once, and staring out over the waves with a dreamy half-smile several more times. At the time she had been too miserable over Jack's capture and her own situation to remark much upon it, but now it struck her-- James Norrington felt as constrained on land as she did, and his ship gave him the same freedom as Jack's did him.

The sails caught the wind and filled magnificently. A cheer rose from the decks, was echoed back from those left ashore. The feathers on the Commodore's hat fluttered and he lifted his face to the salt breeze, the faintest of smiles softening his stern lips.

The _Dauntless_ slipped from the harbor, the chase begun.

And Elizabeth Swann was left with the most uncomfortable sensation prickling in her chest-- on the one hand was a man whose life was the sea and the wind beneath a wide, wide sky, and on the other, one as chained to the land and its conventions as she.

And she may have made the wrong choice after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Pirate in the Blood  
**

Disclaimer: This story was written for entertainment only and I am making no profit from it. "Pirates of the Caribbean" and the characters within belong to Disney; I am only borrowing them and no harm is intended with this story. Please do not post elsewhere without permission from the author.  
.

Fair and sharpish stood the winds off Port Royal that day, and his _Pearl_ bounded acrost the sea with the exhuberance of dolphins in her bones. Jack's teeth went dry from grinning into the wind; his fierce joy was too deep for mere song, but when the _Black Pearl_ hummed to him, he tried to hum back.

"Sorry, love; need t'wet m'whistle." Fingers trailed along the crazed wood of the wheel, then flicked sharply in the air, summoning a nearby crewman. "Hold steady th' course," Jack Sparrow ordered. He relinquished the wheel with a lingering caress. "Back in a flash, m'love." Quartetto shot him a wary look.

Down the deck he strutted, hips loose, arms swinging in expansive arcs, just a heartbeat from flinging himself into the embrace of the _Pearl's_ rigging and letting her rock and rock him. "Another eve, m'lady, when the lines be a mite less cobweb-like."

In captain's quarters he rummaged through tangled clots of quietly mouldering soiled clothing and shredded linens until he unearthed a bottle. An odor of foulness rose from the carpet-- it was dark with filth, spongey with rot beneath his boots. He crossed to a wall cabinet, stepping gingerly. Instead of a Frenchman's crystal decanter, he found wadded-up shirts, their once-exquisite lace black with mold.

"Blearg!" Jack jerked back in disgust. Tilting his head as far back as he could, he extended one arm and fastidiously pinched a fold of stained fabric between his long fingers. But when he extracted the shirt, a pouf of powdery mildew showered out along with it and set off a tremendous sneezing fit.

He flung the offending garment to the carpet, and, shielding his nose with his own dirty coat sleeve, fled the cabin.

A search of the galley turned up the other ingredients he sought, along with a prodigious amount of food turning to slime or hard fuzzy lumps, a swirl of shiny fat flies, and droppings. Rat droppings. Of truly disturbing size.

"Rats," Jack muttered, backing out of the galley. "In m'_Pearl_." She moaned deep in her aching timbers, and he nodded, patted the nearest wall. "I hear y' m'love. Don't fret-- ol' Jack'll sort y' soon enough."

He made his way back on deck, some of the swagger gone from his stride now. From his coat pocket he drew the bottle with one motion while shooing Quartetto from the wheel with another. The warm wood was balm in his hand, and she hummed again to him. Jack took a long pull on the bottle, smacked his lips, and hummed back.

Ahh. That were a sweet, sweet feelin', that were.

"Cap'n? You want I should take the wheel a spell?" Gibbs sidled up, looking askance at the bottle.

Jack flapped one hand. "B'gone, you. A lil' squizzle so's I can hum a lullaby isn't worth twistin' your linen o'er." He took another swig, throat working as he swallowed deeply. "Ahhh. Hits th' spot, that does. If you're looking for something that'll be of assistance, Mr. Gibbs, you might take Quartetto there along into my quarters and turn out the cupboards for any of Barbossa's effects. There seems to be a bit of a miasma brewing."

Gibbs looked pained, but he nodded. "Aye, sir."

Jack tucked the bottle beneath his elbow and flipped open his compass to check the heading. "Roll up that disreputable excuse for a carpet, too, if y'please," he called back, "and give it th' heave-ho."

The sun set over Jack Sparrow's left shoulder and still he stood at the wheel, humming and swaying lightly, nipping contentedly at his bottle from time to time. As his hand remained steady and their course true, the crew's apprehension faded , to be replaced by awe at his ability to hold his rum.

Jack figured there was no gain to be had from telling them the bottle contained equal amounts of sweet water and tart lime as potent rum. This was no time to be getting spirits-drowsy, after all, not on his first night back with his _Pearl_.

The horizon spread before the figurehead, so wide with possibilities that it merged with the sky and soared on, above him, past him, and outward.  
.

Isla de Muerta protruded from the blue waves off the port bow like a black crusted scab. Jack clapped his spyglass shut and spun to face the crew. "Deserted, just as I said! And all that gold restin' in those chambers like honey in a hive, a-waiting to be scooped up. So we're all of an accord?"

The cries of "Aye!" were widely scattered amongst more generalized uneasy mutterings. Jack wilted, hurt. Even his fluttering scarves drooped.

"_Not_ in accord? After votin' all par-lay-mentary procedure-like an' all?"

"Aye, we voted, Jack," Marty grated from the front rank.

"Voted not to be set ashore on Hispaniola, ripe for pickin' by Navy scum," Kursar put in with a sour stare.

"You owe me a boat, Jack," Anamaria reminded him.

"Aye! And what better way to scare one up than with the application of a bit o' gold?" Jack asked winningly. He cocked his head and swept the line of crewmembers with a sloe-eyed glance. "Gold, mates-- all y' can carry," he confided in a whisper. "Five stay aboard to keep watch on me _Pearl_, the rest bring every sack, every crate and keg to be found aboard and row ashore. We fill 'em with coin, come back and spill 'em out on deck, and divide out the shiny, even shares to every one-a y'." He smiled, long, dirty fingers fluttering. "Onesie-by-onesie, 'til we're all donesie. Just like Noah's ark... near enough."

"Who?" a man in back asked. And, "Heathen!" another replied.

Jack grinned, showing gold teeth. "Gold, gentlemen... and lady," he added with a short bow to Anamaria. "Knee-deep, as it were. Drippin' down the walls and poolin' on the floor like sunshine." His gaze roved over the assembled crew. "Think of your heart's desire," he said softly. He stopped on Anamaria. "I know _yours_."

Mouth tight, she jerked a grudging nod. "A boat. _My_ boat."

"A crate of rum, and deck to drink it on." That was Gibbs, looking wistful.

"Pistol. A good 'un. And powder, shot, and a fine leather belt to hold it all."

"Full belly, full bottle, full bed... every night without fail."

"M'pockets jinglin' like a rich man's purse."

"Wimmin. 'Least one fer each day o'th'week!" Laughter greeted this one.

"Respect."

The laughter was silenced by Marty's single gruff word. Jack nodded slowly. "Aye, there's the rub-- respect. Already brave sailors y' are, with the _self_-respect to go with it. But the gold in that cavern'll assure y' get the outside respect due a rich man... and woman."

For a long moment, the _Pearl_ rocked to the melody of waves and wind. Then Joshamee Gibbs stirred. "Launch the boats, lads! Fetch sacks and crates!" he bellowed.

The tense gathering broke into a relieved scramble. Straws were drawn, and all but five men took up every container that hands could be laid upon and made for the longboats. The crew set out for the island in a welter of excited chatter and laughter.

Jack knelt in the bow of the lead boat and watched Isla de Muerta's damp black maw fill his field of vision. No fear chewed at his guts-- he'd already seen the worst this cursed chunk of rock could throw his way. Happy thoughts of sound planks and uncorrupted canvas filled his mind.

Behind him, the voices died away with each pull of the oars. The plash of water nearly covered the low muttering that started up-- nearly, but not completely.

Then, "Jack!" came a sharp call from the next boat.

He turned 'round. "Yes, love?"

Anamaria ignored the endearment. "I don't like this. It don't feel right."

"Feels damp. Clammy, even. Normal-like for a high spot in the sea."

She shook her head; he could see her face in the light of the lantern, angled with shadows and apprehension. "No, Jack. It feels _wrong_ to be goin' in there, into that black."

"'Long as none o' y' so much as breathes on yon stone chest I've warned y' about, there's naught to fear. Rest of the treasure's not cursed-- it's just swag, lonely and chilly and wanting to be warmed in the pockets of Captain Jack Sparrow's crew." He smiled encouragingly.

She shifted nervously. "Ain't right, Jack. Ain't _safe_."

"Now don't be starting that!" he said, sharpness overriding wheedling reassurance. "You'll conjure trouble from thin air!"

Anamaria sucked in her breath. "Don't speak of conjuring, Jack Sparrow!"

"Meant no disrespect. No harm'll come to us, on me honor-- the curse is lifted! The gods're tucked up all dozy an' appeased-like. Already hauled out a pretty passel in me own two arms, didn't I? Not my fault bloody Norrington confiscated it all!"

"And look what happened to you after," Marty growled.

"Aye! Landed back on me sweet _Pearl_ with just a bit of a sore neck!" Jack shot back. He glanced down at his rowers, who had slackened off until the oars rested idle in their locks. The current was wheeling them slowly away from the cavern mouth, slyly pushing them back toward the waterlogged skeletons of the dozens of sunken ships clogging the passage. "Pull!" he roared. "Pull, I say!"

The boats jerked forward once more. Anamaria shivered, her fingers twisting in a half-forgotten warding charm. "I got a bad feelin'," she moaned, but she said it low enough that Jack could pretend not to hear.

The slap of waves against rocks grew louder. The steep shoreline stretched upward, glistening with rivulets of spray. Jack raised the bow lantern, and its beams reached into the cavern mouth.

Shining back came the seductive soft glow of pure gold.

The crew gasped as one. The rowers stopped again, water dripping from their oars, and everyone stared in wonder.

Not even across the threshhold yet, and gold glimmered from cracks in the rocky walls and from beneath the dark water. Coral outcroppings had snagged chains and bracelets, and a jeweled goblet rested on a narrow ledge as if someone had set down a drink and just stepped away for a moment. A wooden chest sat inches above the high tide line, its bands corroded by the salt air. A waterfall of tarnished silver coins spilled from a hole in the rotted slats.

"Blimey!" someone whispered.

"It be true, then," murmered another.

"'Course it is!" Jack said stoutly. He motioned. "Pull, mates."

They made to resume rowing again, but as their oars dipped into the lapping black waves, there was a strangled gasp from the second boat. Anamaria lurched to her feet. "No!" she cried. "T'isn't safe to pass within!"

"Anamaria... " Jack groaned.

But she stepped from the bottom of the boat, stepped clean out of her boots and up onto the thwart. And before anyone could react, she made a tight dive over the gunwale and struck out for the _Black Pearl_, swimming away with desperate strength.

Jack watched her go. "Keep your eyeballs fixed on the _Pearl_, Cotton. First sign of her being scarpered off, give me a whistle," he said flatly.

The old man swung over the side to a flat area near the cave entrance, his parrot flapping to keep its perch.

"Red sky at morning!" it squawked agreeably.

The others continued on into the cavern, the rowers unhooking the oars from the oarlocks and using them as paddles in the narrow course. The whispers were only awed now, and hands reached out, reached down, to pluck up stray coins and gems. Jack smiled grimly. He had them hooked now, by Neptune!

One by one, the _Pearl's_ boats scraped up onto the landing. Jack hopped out and turned to face his crew, holding up his hands. "Men: listen here."

They froze in the act of clambering out and looked warily at him.

"Take what fits easy-like in the sacks and leave the bulky trinkets behind. Gold coin spends quicker'n baubles needing to be bartered or sold, and divides neater than crowns and kettles. And whatever you do-- don't touch the stone chest, on pain of eternal damnation." He saw throats bob with deep gulps. Taking advantage of their momentary fear, he whipped a burlap sack out of his belt, spun, and galloped up the path worn between the rocks.

The crew leapt to action with outraged howls, pounding along after him. Long-legged Crimp took the lead... and when he made the main chamber and slammed to a stop, the rest of the crew piled into his back.

It was so silent the drip of water from the ceiling could be clearly heard. Off to one side came a metallic-sounding avalanche as Jack scampered up one treasure heap.

"Mother o'God," Gibbs breathed reverently.

It was Aladdin's cave, El Dorado... and it was all theirs.

Above them, Jack used a splint to transfer flame from his lantern to a torch in the wall. Light flared, dazzling off a decade's-worth of plunder, so sweet and golden it could be drunk like honey.

"It be a dragon's hoard!" young Thatch gasped.

"Aye!" Jack called down cheerfully. "But without the dragon!"

Gibbs clapped his hands. "To work, men! Kursar! Light the torches along that wall! Crimp! The ones on that arch! To salvagin', ye swabbies, and let no man slack by!"

There was a mad scramble across the cavern as the crew dashed to whatever spot caught their eye. Although most followed Jack's directive to scoop up easily transacted gold coins, some could not help but pocket a jewel or a heavy pocketwatch or an intricately-carved ivory figurine.

From high atop his treasure aerie, Jack watched for a moment, but all were toiling away with a will now. Marty upended a sturdy chest of porcelain and wood shavings, and used a silver tray to shovel gold doubloons into it instead. Gibbs had hung a topaz-studded crucifix around his neck but was now absorbed in piling coins into sugar sacks. Moises and Tearlach were already dragging a filled crate back toward the landing.

Aye, there would be sufficient swag to refit his _Pearl_ keel to crow's nest, with enough bits and bobs left over to appease the crew until the next prize.

Jack grinned, and in the flickering torchlight he looked for a moment like a particularly cunning fox.


	3. Chapter 3

**Pirate in the Blood  
**

Disclaimer: This story was written for entertainment only and I am making no profit from it. "Pirates of the Caribbean" and the characters within belong to Disney; I am only borrowing them and no harm is intended with this story. Please do not post elsewhere without permission from the author.

.

Jack Sparrow sank to his knees in the pile of plunder and pushed aside a hideous urn, heedless that it bounced all the way down the heap and clanged into a pool of damp.

Whilst in the midst of that little hurley-burley with Barbossa, he thought he'd espied... Oh, aye! A stash of bars of gold, wafer-thin and of the purest quality. "Come to Jack," he whispered, plucking up one, and then another, and another. What a man could clad his dear love in, with coin like this... He filled a burlap sack as quickly as he could, pausing only to slide two of the bars into slits secreted in the underside of his sword belt.

He tested the weight of the loot-- it threatened to split the dusty burlap, so he tied that sack shut and gave it a push, letting it roll down to the foot of the heap. An especially large shiny coin stamped with a fat cow and a beehive caught his eye and he snatched it up and slipped it inside his shirt cuff.

Just then a faint tremor seemed to shiver up through his knees.

Jack froze; but a split second later he had risen smoothly to his feet, sword drawn. His gaze went automatically to the dias in the center of the cavern.

The stone chest stood undisturbed.

Not one of the crew was within 50 paces of it. And in fact, not a one of them had paused in the salvaging. Jack turned an uneasy gaze slowly 'round the grotto, but nothing looked amiss. It appeared no one else had felt anything, either.

"Aye... well. Bit of overheated imagination, there." Jack sheathed his sword in a show of bravado. His hand lingered at the hilt, but there was no further disturbance, so he pulled another sack from his belt and crouched down to fill it.

He burrowed through the mound of swag, tossing aside a heavy plate samovar and an inlaid hookah in his quest to ferret out every last pure gold bar. The top layer loosened, quivered... and then it sluiced downward, carrying along Jack for a good ten feet. He grabbed the back of a gilt and velvet chair to stem his descent. A polished ebony chest slid out from underneath its legs and caught his eye. Boots braced on the unstable heap once more, Jack raised the lid.

On the black velvet lining lay a necklace of large pearls, glowing like dozens of moons strung together. A pendant hung from the pearl strand-- a huge drop-shaped ruby, rich as blood. Smaller teardrops of diamonds sparkled on the setting.

It was a necklace not unlike any one of a hundred others in the cavern; it wasn't even the richest or most ornate. Yet something about it stirred Jack's heart like none of the other baubles. He couldn't take his eyes from it.

With one finger, he stroked the length of gleaming pearls, feeling them tick-tick-tick beneath his rough fingertip all the way to the clasp at the top. He lifted the necklace from its velvet bed, letting the jewel case fall unheeded, and held the strand up to the torchlight. Turning it from side to side lit the ruby with a liquid sheen.

There was only one long slender neck Jack Sparrow could picture this necklace adorning. By rights he should never let the thought enter his mind. But he didn't even need to close his eyes to imagine the effect of the moon-pale pearls on sun-kissed skin, to see the pendant hanging precisely in the decolletage between two small, perfect breasts.

Blood tribute for a bonny pirate queen.

A crying shame said pirate queen had trothed herself to a landlubber lad!

Jack cradled the ruby on his palm, cursing himself for the opportune moment he himself had let slip by in favor of a rum bottle. Good rum it had been, aye, but now the cunning Miss Elizabeth belonged to Dear William.

He contemplated the necklace moodily. T'would take a miracle to lure her back to the buccaneer life, but his blood throbbed with the lunatic notion it were, in fact, possible.

Oddly, the ruby pulsed against his palm in response.

Even as he stared in amazement, Jack realized the truth-- it wasn't the ruby, beating like a small heart of fire. It was the cavern, the Isla de Muerta itself, shuddering beneath his feet.

This time the crew felt it, too. Each froze in mid-motion. "Wh-what... " Moises began.

A shrill, manical scream cut him off. Jack nearly jumped out of his skin. Something hurtled from the shadows near the craggy ceiling, caromed off a pillar of stone, and whizzed past Jack's head. There were yelps and yowls of terror from the crew. Tetch bolted, kicking over a filled keg and sending gold coins pattering down into a pool. The screeching projectile thumped onto Gibbs's back and the large man leapt about, swatting ineffectually over his own shoulders.

It sprang away with another ear-piercing scream, but not before Jack had gotten a glimpse of the thing. Even as it bounced wildly from wall to floor to pillage-peak, Jack drew his pistol, cocked it, and aimed calmly.

The shot cracked through the echoing chamber, silencing his bellowing crew and the frenzied missile in a puff of... fur?

Aye, fur.

Where the shot had connected, the thing halted in mid-air and dropped to the floor, brown and grey tufts drifting lightly in its wake. The instant it touched down it spun to face Jack, baring tiny sharp teeth and glaring malevolently at him.

"Monkey!" Jack snarled.

It hissed back at him, unharmed but furious. Without taking his eyes off it, Jack tucked away his pistol and drew his sword.

"Blessed Mother, it still be cursed!" gasped Gibbs.

"Nay-- cursed _again_!" Jack glared at Barbossa's hated pet. "Back to work, lads. If yon foul creature comes near, bash it with something heavy and pop a kettle over it. It won't stop us from... "

The monkey screeched and sprang straight up. An instant later another tremblor rattled the cavern, harder still. Bits of treasure shook loose and clattered to the floor. Still screeching, the monkey took off around the grotto again as if mad with fear.

Marty, arms sheltering his head, peered out and croaked, "What's... happening?"

"Don't know." Hurriedly, Jack began reloading his pistol. "But let's hurry and finish, y' flea-ridden curs."

Before they could finish, another quake rocked the cavern. Rocked the whole _island_, Jack figured. Water slopped wildly out of the pools, whole mounds of swag avalanched, and even bits of the ceiling and walls pelted fown onto their heads. The monkey had attached itself to Crimp's head, small sharp paws clinging to his hair. It was shrieking in terror.

This was the same creature that had showed no fear of cannon fire, nor of scampering into the bowels of a sinking ship to obediently retrieve Will's medallion. Jack came to an abrupt decision.

"Right, let's be off. Quick-like, but don't forget the booty."

Another long, grinding rumble shook the cave, pitching Jack off his feet and down the treasure heap. He landed on his stomach and was disconcerted to see a long rift split the floor only yards in front of him. Sulphurous steam boiled out.

On hands and knees, he scrabbled frantically for his sacks of gold bars. The _Pearl_ needed them, she did, needed what they would buy to heal Barbossa's damage and neglect. His feverish digging uncovered the pearl and ruby necklace. Jack couldn't bear to cast it aside; he snatched it up and dropped it down his right boot. As soon as he did, he saw the ravelly seams of his burlap sacks.

_See, tis a **lucky** bauble!_

Isla de Muerta shook from the very roots of its rocky underpinnings to its barren black peaks. Beneath the screeches of the monkey and the cries of his crew, Jack heard an ominous hissing. He clenched the sacks' necks and rose into a half-crouch, preparing to sprint to the boats.

Before he could take a single step, the last of the torches guttered and went out.

For a second it was black as the inside of an iron cookpot. Then Jack blinked and became aware of an unearthly red glow pouring through the rift splitting the floor and from fissures forming along the cavern walls.

"Tis Hell itself comin' to collect us all," Jack breathed in horror. He commenced a rapid shuffle towards the landing, dragging his filled sacks alongside him. A thin red line chased across the floor, meeting one of the pools of seepage. There was a 'whooshing' sound, and the pool boiled dry in a blink. The red line continued on until it met another fiery split. It joined up and began to widen.

"Bugger," Jack said flatly. He shuffled faster.

The air grew hotter. The next tremor threw Jack off his feet again. He could barely hear the cries of his crew over the rumble of falling rock. A wave of rotten-egg stench made him gag, and he let go of his sacks to reach for the flowing scarf at his waist, intending to wrap it 'round his face. A glance back convinced him to ignore the burning air and get moving again-- an incandescent bubble of hellfire was growing out of the rock. As he watched, a tumble of trinkets slumped into liquid and trickled away in streams of gold.

"Not fair!" Jack cried, seizing his sacks again. "We left your cursed chest alone!" he yelled to the ceiling.

The gods were indifferent. The floor broke into a patchwork of rock hemmed with fire, and Jack stopped, teetering, at the rim of one crevice that had opened at his boot-toes. He saw at a glance the only chance he had of crossing it was before it widened further.

He swung one sack forward and pitched it over, and then, cradling the other to his chest, leaped clumsily across. He landed heavily a heartbeat behind the first sack.

The gold-filled burlap split as it landed, and the bars fanned out across the floor, shimmering, fire-lit. He hesitated, sorely tempted to try and salvage at least a few more. But in the end, self-preservation won out. With a last stricken look at the sweet tempting gold, Jack hustled on.

The rumbling was constant now, and building stronger with each passing moment. Down the pathway he went, ducking roof pieces and chunks of coral. He passed one of the kegs smashed flat beneath a boulder, gold coin leaking around the edges like lifeblood. He needed both hands to trundle his heavy sack however, and so he cursed roundly at the waste and labored onward.

More chaos met him at the landing. One boat had been reduced to splintered boards floating on the agitated waves of the cave lagoon. Gibbs was helping several wet, bleeding men into a second boat, and Marty and Quartetto were in the process of dumping an extremely heavy-looking chest over the transom of a third.

"No! Stop! What are you doing?" Jack yelped, chugging forward with his back bowed double.

They ignored him and the chest went over, disappearing beneath the chop with a sucking 'splooop!". The boat pitched, nearly throwing Marty overboard. Quartetto caught him by the beard-hairs as he flailed, pulling him back from the brink and slinging the smaller man into the bottom of the boat. Then he too dropped down, seized an oar, and began to paddle for the mouth of the cave.

Gibbs had got the boat pointed toward the exit and launched, and now was wading after Marty and Quartetto. His clothing pulled heavily with every step, and with a moan of regret, the seaman finally turned out his pockets. Gold twinkled down and vanished in the dark water.

"Get ye aboard, Cap'n!" Tetch begged. He stood ready to shove off this last of the longboats as soon as Jack boarded. There was a chest on the floor between the thwarts, and young Thatch sat trembling with his feet on it aside the starboard oarlock, his face wrenched with terror. Jack heaved his remaining sack into the boat-- it hit with a splat and a dry ripping sound, and gold bars poured out into the bottom.

No matter. They were _in_ the boat, and that was what counted.

There was a roar from the cavern behind them and Jack had the fleeting thought that a dragon indeed guarded the hoard, and that they had waked him. Then the ground swelled in a broad rippling wave, and the boat dropped from under him and he was falling, and bashing his face, and By Nancy it _hurt_! The water gushed away out of the cave, and from the mouth came a great flapping and squawking as Cotton's parrot yelped out, "Man overboard! Ahoy and avast! Man overboard!"

The monkey gave a screech that dwindled to a gurgle, and Jack lifted his bleary head to see a wave come sweeping back into the cave, pushing before it Cotton, and one of the boats that hadn't quite cleared the isle, and a bedraggled scrap with fierce button eyes, paddling madly. The monkey caught hold of the boat and made to pull itself aboard, but Terlach walloped it with his oar. Batted to the cave wall, it caught the rough surface with its agile paws and clung for a moment, shaking off the blow and chittering with rage. Then it leapt at Jack.

It landed on his shoulder and dug into the matted hanks of Jack's hair. He swatted vainly at the little beast. "Geroff! Geroff me, y' filthy beggar. Geroff I say!"

His own wild movements knocked him off balance. Jack fell backward into the boat, dislodging the monkey so that it hopped from beam to bow and back again, chiding them in stridant tones. Terlach poled past, making for the cave mouth once more. Casually, he popped the monkey again with his oar, knocking it into the water.

"Row! Row for your lives!"

Terlach paused to fish Cotton up out of the drink, but as the old man sprawled into the boat, it nearly capsized. It was riding too low in the water to make any headway in the terrible seas. Terlach and Cotton locked eyes. Terlach shoved his oar into Kursar's hands and he and Cotton plunged their hands into the gold-filled crate weighting the boat and began pitching the treasure overboard.

From astern of them, Jack howled in agony. But within minutes their boat lightened enough to move. They paddled hard, Jack's boat trailing them.

The air was full of ash and coral dust, and the walls were crumbling around them. A cracked board floated past and Jack grabbed it, adding his muscle to the rowers' efforts. The boat moved sluggishly, but as long as the large breakers battering the cave mouth didn't swamp them, Jack thought they could make it back to the _Pearl_ with loot intact. He swung his board to starboard and then to port, bracing against the cavern walls to keep their vessel from smashing into them. One side, then the other, while Tetch and Thatch paddled and cursed. Waves slopped over the sides, but laborously they inched through.

Finally in a crash of spray they popped free, like a cork from a bottle. The night sky was a roiling cauldron of lightning and flame, the sea pitching and red with reflected fire. Jack twisted to look behind, and the isle appeared to be folding in on itself, a throbbing red wound at its center. The monkey scrabbled at the stern and Jack scraped it off with his board and cast it to the sea.

"Men, pull. Pull harder than you've ever pulled in your lives, or we'll be sucked under. Pull. _Pull._"

A ragged line of boats stretched to the _Pearl_. Jack's belly ached with the need to feel the grain of her against his skin again. "I'll never leave your decks again, m'bonny lass, if only I can reach you now!" he promised aloud.

Little by little they drew closer, but the weight of all that gold made the boat slow and unwieldy. The heaving seabed tossed up sections of the ships wrecked on the approach to Isla de Muerta, making their retreat even more treacherous.

They were falling behind.

Marty and Quartetto's boat had reached the _Pearl_, and there was a great rush to haul the men aboard. Jack redoubled his efforts to clear away the flotsam and help propel them along, but they no longer were making any progress. Dashed up and down on the crashing seas, he was just out of reach of his precious _Black Pearl_.

Thatch suddenly released his oar and crouched down.

"Here! What are you doing?" Jack barked.

The young man didn't answer. With cupped hands, he began to bail frantically, and, it appeared, futilely. There was an alarming amount of water in the boat, Jack realized.

"Leave by and keep rowing!" he snapped. They had to reach the ship or they were doomed.

Thatch kept scooping away mindlessly, but for every handful he pitched out, a bucketful slopped in. They were riding lower by the second, and were far too near yet to the conflagration behind them.

Jack had seen what happened when a naval vessel's powder magazine went up.

He'd seen the results of mixing fire, seawinds, and brittle island tinder.

This was going to be worse.

Much, _much_ worse.

Tetch must have come to the same conclusion, for he stopped paddling and laid his hand on young Thatch's shoulder. "We's sinkin'-- J'es jump fer it, lad."

"Oi! Y' stay right where y' are and row!" Jack rapped out.

The grizzled sailor cast a measuring eye over the distance left to travel. "Ye swim, lad?" Thatch's head bobbled up and down. "Come 'long, then."

He pried the stiff buckled shoes off his feet and shed his belt and heavy coat. Then he placed his gnarled hand back on Thatch's shoulder and pulled the boy to his feet. The water inside the boat was nearly to his knees.

Jack made to grab for Thatch's leg, but it was too late-- both sailors leaped overboard. When they surfaced, they began flailing toward the _Pearl_, where Terlach's boat had just arrived.

There was no time to hurl curses after them.; Jack threw himself forward and took up the oars, barely capturing Thatch's before it slipped away out of the oarlock. He set his feet hard on the floor and drew the oars back.

It was like trying to move an elephant.

He pulled again, nearly tearing his back muscles loose from his spine. Leaned forward, bringing up the oars. Pulled.

Nearly pulled off his own arms.

Water crept higher in the boat. It was too swamped to row, too swamped even to drift now, but Jack kept trying. He tried and tried and when it became abundantly obvious he could not row a water-filled vessel all by his lonesome, he unhooked one oar and knelt on the thwart and tried to paddle it like a coracle.

He was still trying as the seawater overcame the boat's buoyancy, and it slipped away beneath him to join the myriad of other wrecks below.

Still kneeling, Jack sank along with it. He had the presence of mind to hang onto the oar, though, so all he got was a dunking. He surfaced spluttering, holding his hat to his head with his other hand, and with the chattering screech of the monkey filling his ears.

It was still following him.

Grasping the oar before him with both hands, Jack frog-kicked toward the _Pearl_. The monkey paddled alongside him until it was able to grab the oar's blade, and there it clung, baring its teeth at Jack from time to time, too far out of his reach to bother knocking it away at the moment.

A deep rumbling Jack felt rather than heard carried through the water he was immersed in. He raised his head and bellowed up at the _Pearl_, "Set sail! Make ready to weigh anchor, soon's I'm aboard!"

A ladder rolled down the _Pearl's_ port side as he approached, and then her stern swung slowly around a degree, offering poor Jack a bit of shelter for the climb. _Good old Gibbs!_ he thought gratefully as he hooked his elbows over the lowest rung and hacked seawater from his lungs. _Just that thoughtful to his Captain!_

He turned to shove the oar, with monkey attached, away from the ship, but he was too late-- while he'd been doubled over, coughing, the creature had sprung up onto the ladder above him and scurried aboard. "Barnacle-bitten spawn of a pox-mongering sea-devil!" Jack cursed as he dragged himself, rung by rung, up the ladder.

He collapsed in a sodden heap on deck, and since he was already face down, he kissed the _Pearl's_ salt-scoured planks, kissed them with unabashed gratitude and joy, and with no mind of who might be watching.

No one was watching. No one stood ready to help him over the rail; no one rushed to his aid as he tumbled aboard. No, his crew were already at work preparing the _Pearl_ to make way... had been hard at work to do so even before his orders, it seemed.

They were hauling mightily at the anchor cable, with Gibbs himself at the head of the line, without regard for whether their captain was actually _on_ the ship or not. The anchor wasn't budging, though-- jammed tight, it was, holding the _Pearl_ fast in place while they struggled and strained and pleaded.

And then, as Jack's lips touched the weathered wood, the anchor came free. All hands cried out in victory as it rose with sudden ease. The sails stood ready, unfurled and filled with hot wind, to glide the _Pearl_ to open ocean the instant she was freed.

And so she did skip smartly seaward, as the crew finished lifting anchor and setting sail. Anamaria had the wheel, and even at the distance, Jack could see the grim set to her face.

"Thank y' for waiting for me, love," he murmered. "For it seems no one else did."

And he pushed upright, battered, aching in every muscle and tendon, and went forward to claim back his lady.

Anamaria's eyes were hot with anger, but she relinquished the wheel without a word. The _Pearl_ stirred as his hands fitted to her...

Isla de Muerta exploded in a blast that shook the heavens.

Fire and molten rock fountained up from the hole in the ocean that a moment earlier had been an island. The thunderclap knocked everyone but Jack, braced by the wheel, off his or her feet. A searing hurricane roared outward, pushing everything-- birds, debris, cinders-- in its path. It punched hard at the ragged black sails.

"Hold together, lass!" Jack begged, and by some miracle, she did. She caught the blast and rode with it, letting the howl of wind shoot her across the ocean, faster, faster, out of range of the fiery stuff raining down, the deadly gouts of steam boiling up, where Isla de Muerta was no more.

Jack only held the wheel lightly, to let her know he was still there. Beyond that, he gave her her head, to take them out of danger and where she pleased.

One by one, the crew picked themselves up from where they'd been flung. The isle became a bonfire on their stern, and then an ember, and, at long last, merely a glow. The _Black Pearl's_ heady speed slackened from runaway pace to her more usual brisk clip.

Gibbs approached awkwardly. "Jack! Ye made it! Awful worryin' for a bit there-- awful worryin'."

And although there was much he could have said in response, in the end Jack only regarded his first mate through unfathomable dark eyes and replied, "Aye."

.

Anamaria jumped ship at a speck of land called Abaco in the chain of Bahama islands. It was a testament to her lingering unease that she would risk an island where her free-born status was unlikely to be honoured by the British colonists there.

She took with her nothing but a meager roll of belongings, her knife, and the clothes on her back.

Left behind in her hammock was a folded banner of bright cloth-- a half-sewn flag suitable for a modest boat.

Jack lost more crew when he put in for repairs at a secluded port on the mainland of Spanish Florida. By ones and twos they slipped away, vanishing into the sandy scrub pine forests under a moonless sky.

Jack let them go without protest.

.

The treasure was gone. Not a single sack of gold had survived the escape; every chest had sunk to the depths. Pockets were empty, by purpose or chance. There was no epic carouse in a jolly port for Jack Sparrow's crew, and there was no yardarm-to-bilge overhaul for Jack Sparrow's ship.

No grand parcelling out of loot in equal shares took place.

When he sat down at last to clean and dry his pistol and sword, Jack had found the two bars of gold and the huge shiny cow coin he had tucked away in his clothing. They were enough to patch the holes, replace the worst of the rot, and lay in provisions.

The _Black Pearl_ weren't pristine as he might wish, but she were sturdy and stout-hearted, and she were his 'n his alone.

Gibbs, guilt-stricken over the near-abandonment once again of Jack, insisted upon bartering the topaz crucifix that had managed to stay draped around his neck through the whole fiasco. A minor Spanish nobleman, with a share in a St. Augustine merchantile, took it in exchange for some assorted crates of rum, tobacco, and a cask of fine Rioja wine.

The pearl and ruby necklace was hidden away, in a little secret drawer so cunningly concealed not even Barbossa had found it in ten years of living in proximity to it.

Perhaps someday Jack would see occasion to place it 'round the neck to which it belonged.

.

"You're certain these are the bearings?"

"Completely, Commodore! I have checked and checked again. Lieutenant Groves is fetching the log now for a comparison."

James Norrington stood with his hands clasped casually behind his back, surveying the featureless stretch of water off his bow. All sign of confusion was carefully schooled from his face, but he _was_ confused, and deeply so.

Less than a fortnight ago, an island had pierced the waves, at this very spot.

Had it not?

Groves hurried up the steps with the logbook. Tipping his wig back on his high forehead, he held out the volume for his commander. Norrington paged through it to the brief notations of Miss Swann's rescue from the rum runner's hideaway, of the capture of Sparrow, of the choice to go recover Mr. Turner, British citizen, from the hands of a notorious pirate gang. The heading given by Sparrow was jotted right there in India ink.

The numbers matched exactly.

"Take soundings of the depth," Norrington ordered. "I want readings from each point of this location."

"Aye, sir!" Gillette clattered down the stairs, barking out the order to certain crewmen, who hurried to cast over the side a long knotted rope.

"Where the devil could it have gone, Theo?" Norrington murmered, barely moving his lips.

Groves looked startled at the slip of his given name. "I've no idea, sir. Even Sparrow couldn't hide an entire island... could he?"

"I think not. There must be some explanation; one we have not yet learned."

Some time later, Lieutenant Gillette bustled back with the figures-- the water was considerably deeper now than it had been at their previous engagement on this patch of sea. And, in one spot, smack dab in at the center point of Sparrow's coordinates actually, was a bottomless pit.

"Bottomless, Gillette?"

"Might's well be, sir!" the young lieutenant replied, high color suffusing his cheeks. "We've sent down the sounding line its entire length, and nary a hint of seabed! Tied on every yardage of spare line we could scrounge, and still nothing."

"Curious," Norrington muttered.

"Some of the men wonder if the doings here caused to be opened a portal to... well, to Hell, sir." Gillette's eyes grew very round.

"Utter nonsense, Lieutenant!" Norrington snapped. He glared icily at Gillette. "Reel in the line, and make ready to proceed. And quash those ridiculous rumors among the men at once!"

"Aye-aye, sir!" The chastened lieutenant hustled off.

"Where _did_ the island go, sir? Could it have fallen down a chasm opened beneath the ocean floor?" Groves murmered.

"Record the numbers taken here, Lieutenant," Norrington replied in a remote tone. "_Someone_ may find them of interest." He lifted his chin, staring out over the sun-dazzled wavest to the horizon. "_My_ only concern lies with my duty. Nearest landfall is the Lesser Antilles, and Sparrow's vessel has taken a mighty beating. Set a course that we might investigate some shipyards."

"Aye, sir-- at once." Groves sketched a slight bow and withdrew.

James Norrington gazed into the distance, the picture of calm confidence. Behind his back, his hands were balled in tight fists.

"There is nowhere on this deep blue sea you can escape me, Jack Sparrow," he murmered between pinched lips.


End file.
